


the feeling of a lightning strike

by caravanslost



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Footy Secret Santa, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee-shop AU. Twelve days, eleven coffees, different sides of the counter, and two people too shy to make the first move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the feeling of a lightning strike

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the [Footy Secret Santa](http://footy_ssanta.livejournal.com/), for [starscry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry). I really enjoyed writing this prompt, although it ended up about 4,000 words longer than I expected it to be (!!!). I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Marco Reus and Mario Gotze do not belong me.

The morning rush had eased off. For the first time in the three hours since they had opened at 6.30 am, there was no one other than staff in the coffee shop. Marco sighed deeply, and leaned against the back counter, stretching his back and his neck to ease the dull ache that had developed from hunching over the coffee machine all morning. Outside, the sun had finally risen, several hours later than he had. They both had several hours to go.

His stomach grumbled too, and loudly. Mats and Thomas looked to him in alarm, but he waved away their concern.

More important than food – and there were very few things more important than food – were a few moments to himself. Soon enough, people would begin trickling in for their mid-morning coffees, and then the lunch rush would start, and none of them would get a moment’s peace till half past two.

He had a glass of water and then he skimmed over the headlines of the staff copy of the morning paper. It had already been dampened by circular mug stains (the doing of Thomas, no doubt), and he cast it aside after a few minutes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mats shifting awkwardly behind the counter. He seemed to be trying to catch Marco’s eye.

“Are you okay?” Marco asked.

“Yes. Although – actually – I was wondering if I could ask you a favour.”

Marco shook his head without a second thought or a shred of guilt. “No.”

“You haven’t even let me explain what it is yet.” Mats protested, giving him a wounded look that softened the edges of his sharp features.

But Marco knew. He knew because in two years of working together, Mats had only ever needed one type of favour.

“Don’t waste your breath. And spare me the puppy eyes. ”

“I need to disappear for half an hour.” Mats continued, disregarding him. “Could you cover the counter for me and lie to Philip if he asks where I am?”

“No.”

“Come _on_ , Marco. Please?”

Marco grimaced. “Mats, _no_. I hate working the counter.”

“He’ll scare all the customers anyway.” Thomas pointed out, halfway through wiping a shelf. He paused for a moment to waggle the bottle of cleaning spray in Marco’s general direction. “Look at that face. We’ll have to close down.”

“Where are you going?” Marco asked Mats. At the same time, he reached for the nearest damp tea towel and threw it with some force at Thomas’ head. It connected perfectly, and Thomas made a satisfying sound of disgust.

“Can you cover me or not?” Mats replied, ignoring the question outright. “Please? Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an absolute and utter emergency.”

After a long pause, and a searing glare, Marco relented. “Fine. Go. But you owe me, and I’m never going to let you forget it.”

“I’ll be back for the ten-thirty rush.” Mats promised. “And no one’s going to come in before then. You’re the best.”

“No, I’m really not. I want you to know how much I resent doing this.”

But Mats had already taken his apron off. With one final look around the coffee shop to make sure that Philipp was nowhere in sight, Mats left through the front door. Marco exchanged a look with Thomas before busying himself by replenishing the coffee cups. Thomas abandoned him and went out the back for his break.

It didn’t take long for the chimes above the front door to sound as someone came in. Marco’s irritation flared immediately. Normally, he would expect twenty minutes of quiet before the first person came in for the mid-morning rush, but today – the day that Mats derelicted his duty - the universe had decided to give him only five. Because of course it would.

Marco disliked serving with a passion that he reserved for few things, mostly because he didn't think he was very good at it. Mats, on the other hand, had been born with a gift. Mats remembered people's names, their usual orders, and he greeted them with a smile that was genuinely given, no matter how godless the hour in the morning, or alarming the length of the queue, or obnoxiously detailed their order. He was something of an indiscriminate flirt as well. Mats, in the thirty second window he shared with each customer, made them feel good about themselves, and probably tricked them into thinking that he was in love with them. If not that, then at least he didn't sour their mood.

Marco knew he couldn’t compete with that, so he didn’t bother. He hid behind the coffee machine instead, made good coffee, and prayed that Mats would never call in sick.

He quickly finished wiping down the area where he had been working, and moved to the counter. The customer was already waiting there, and when their eyes met, Marco’s chest tightened strangely.

The customer was a young man. He had bright and soft cheeks, the crests of which had been made rosy by the sharp wind howling outside. His hair was swept back off his forehead and somehow, it had survived the assault of the weather. A long, thick black scarf was wrapped multiple times around his neck, and he wore a dark navy coat with buttons that were almost comically large. He was small already, several inches shorter than Marco, but the scarf enveloped his face and made him seem even smaller.

He was cute, too. When he smiled, the tightness in Marco’s chest seemed to twist, and _fiercely_.

It twisted because this stranger smiled at him like he knew him, like he was happy to see him. Few people had the ability to smile like that. Fewer still had the ability to smile like that at strangers.

And he was very, very cute.

“Good morning.” He said brightly.

Marco was taken aback. Customers rarely greeted servers first.

“Hey. What can I get for you?” He eventually managed.

The young man's eyes darted upwards to the board above Marco's head, and he began reading. Marco wondered whether he had an indecisive one in front of him. The sort that took god-knows-how-long to make up their mind, gave an answer, and then immediately changed their order back to their nice, safe, comfortable first favourite.

The indecisive ones normally drove Marco up the wall, and on any other day, he would have been out for Mats' blood by this point. But Marco didn’t seem to mind as much today. He wondered whether it had anything to do with the twist in his chest, which hadn’t eased at all.

Marco watched as the young man's eyes flicked from left to right, and then down, and then left to right, and then down.

_Holy shit. He's reading the entire board_.

“Can I -” he began, after a few moments, but then he trailed off almost immediately. He had looked at Marco for all of three seconds before his eyes flicked back up to the board. “Actually, I might …. no. Hang on.”

The young man’s eyes continued to inspect the menu. Marco shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and he wasn’t quite sure what else to do. It seemed rude to look away, but it seemed equally rude to keep staring.

The young man eventually decided on his order, and asked very tentatively for a tall Americano with a shot of Irish cream syrup. He paid, Marco made the drink, and then he turned to leave.

Partly because Marco had nothing else to do, but mostly for reasons that he didn’t quite want to acknowledge, he watched the young man leave. The young man paused for a moment in the middle of the store and uncapped his drink to take a sip. To Marco’s surprise, he shuddered rather forcefully at the taste. He took another sip anyway, and shuddered again.

Marco pursed his lips together to hold back his smile, because he knew that reaction well enough. He had seen it on the customers who normally ordered tea, on teenagers with pretensions to coolness, and on children who convinced their parents to let them have a tiny sip. It was the shudder of a completely inexperienced coffee drinker.

That was the first day.

\---

On the second day, Mats abandoned ship again at exactly the same time. Only this time he didn’t ask whether Marco would cover his shift – he merely took off his apron and announced his departure when he was halfway to the door.

Five minutes after Mats had departed, the same young man from the day before walked in. He wore a different coat and a different scarf, but his entire ensemble dwarfed him and seemed to swallow him up. Marco greeted him with a small smile and was rewarded with a wide grin.

Marco decided to ignore the re-emergence of the twisting sensation in his chest.

“Morning. Same drink as yesterday?” He asked, innocently enough.

A grimace briefly clouded the young man’s features as he looked up at the menu. “Er, no. I think I might try something else.”

Indecisiveness was a rare thing in a coffee shop. People had favourite selections, a list of instructions that fell off their tongues reflexively. Those selections were learned by the people who served them, and offered back to them with familiar checks of “the usual?”. Marco believed that this was why people chose a routine coffee shop first thing in the morning – most people enjoyed that regular, if fleeting, acknowledgement of their preferences as much as they enjoyed their drink. And even if they had come from other haunts, they know what they liked to drink and how they liked it prepared. People were predictable and _nobody_ read menus.

Except, it would seem, for this one.

“I’ll have a …um - caramel macchiato?” He said tentatively, as though he was unsure of his own selection.

“Size?”

“Tall.”

“Milk?”

The young man shrugged. “I don’t know – I guess?”

“No,” Marco explained delicately. “Whole or skim?”

“Ah. Skim. No – whole. Yeah – wait. Yeah. Whole milk.”

Marco made the drink, and after he handed it back to the young man, he casually pointed out the counter with the extra sugar. The young man flushed an almighty shade of red and thanked him. He moved to the counter, uncapped his drink, and took a sip. Then he added an alarming amount of sugar.

Marco watched out of the corner of his eye as he took his drink to one of the tables by the nearest window and pulled a book out of his black satchel. It was a big old book – it looked like a classic from a distance – and he opened it and began reading. Marco noticed that one corner of the book was unusually thickened with dog-eared pages, like he had stopped and started reading many times, making it through only a few pages at a time.

And he _fiddled_. He fiddled with everything. He played with his hair constantly, and periodically turned to his reflection in the window to correct it. He played with the sugar sachets in the bowl on the table. He played with the corner of his scarf, winding a fraying tassel around his finger. For someone supposedly sitting down in a chair, he seemed utterly incapable of remaining still. 

He bit down on his lip while he was reading too, and that was the absolute _worst_.

Suddenly, Marco felt a hand at his elbow. He turned and found Thomas near him, one eyebrow cocked. He leaned forward to whisper something in Marco’s ear, his tone somewhere between curiosity and amusement.

“ _You’re staring, Marco_.”

He knew better than to deny it, so he turned quickly to the sink and attended to the small pile of utensils that had accumulated there, hoping that he did so before Thomas had time to notice him flushing red.

A little while later, he heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor, and Marco turned around without thinking. Their eyes met, and the young man gave him a small, shy wave goodbye before leaving.

By now, the twist in his chest had progressed into something more inconvenient, accompanied as it was by a light-headedness and a warmth across his neck that he couldn’t explain. He chose to ignore it instead, and started cleaning the coffee machine with greater vigour than usual. Mats eventually returned, fifteen minutes later than the day before, and he apologized like the world would spin off its axis if he stopped. Marco assured him that it was quite alright.

\---

On the third day, the young man came in at the same time, but two other customers walked in immediately after him. The other two wore suits and carried briefcases and looked Very Busy and Very Important, but that didn’t stop him from taking his sweet time selecting a drink. The suits didn’t bother hiding their impatience, sighing loudly and looking to Marco with annoyance, as though he ought to do something about it. Marco was too charmed by the young man’s indifference to care.

He eventually settled on a skinny peppermint Mocha. Marco took all three orders and payments at once - but this time, because of the suits, he took the young man’s name.

“Mario. Mario Gotze.”

_Mario_.

Marco scribbled the name on the side of the paper cup with a small smile. He didn’t look like a Mario. He looked like sunshine and laughter and way too many hours spent in front of the mirror. But he didn’t look like a Mario.

“Thanks. I only need your first name. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

He prepared the other two drinks first, turning the name of the young man around and over in his mind, and then he began preparing the peppermint mocha.

“Sorry for the delay.” He explained, when he eventually handed it over. “The other two seemed like they were in a rush. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Mario smiled. “Thanks --” and his eyes darted down briefly to the obnoxiously large name badge “ - Marco.”

He left, and Marco watched him go. Mario had a surprisingly deep voice for that face and those cheeks, and Marco found himself thinking that he could get used to hearing it make the sound of his name

\---

On the fourth day, when Marco woke up to his alarm, he realized that he had been thinking about Mario before he had completely realized that he was awake. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow. He was pretty sure that Mario had been the last thing on his mind before he fell asleep, too.

At work, Mats’ guilt eventualy caught up with him. At half past nine, after the last customer of the morning rush had left them to their peace, he turned around and looked to Marco remorsefully.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I won’t do it to you again today. Thank you for covering for me.”

Marco shrugged. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You can leave again today if you have to.”

Mats raised an eyebrow. He leaned back against the counter, folded his arms, and eyed Marco probingly. Clearly, that hadn’t been the answer that he had been expecting.

“Hang on. Let me get this straight. You’re _volunteering_ to serve?”

“I am.”

“And you know that serving is going to bring you in contact with people, right?”

Marco shifted uncomfortably on the spot. He was happy to cover the shift, but he wasn’t sure quite where the conversation was going, and he didn’t want it to continue down this particular path in any case. Mats was annoyingly good at pestering questions that eventually elicited an answer, and Marco had never been a particularly good liar.

After a brief while, he eventually conceded the assertion that Mats had made. “This is true.”

“But Marco. You don’t _like_ people.”

“This is also true.”

Mats didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walked up to Marco, placed a gigantic hand on his forehead, and pretended to check his temperature.

“Okay, so you don’t have a fever.” He looked closely into Marco’s eyes, pretending to examine him. “Your pupils aren’t dilated. No visible signs of recent drug use. And you’re sure that you’re feeling okay?”

Marco rolled his eyes and went back to the counter, busying himself by tidying up the area. Mats got the hint and didn’t ask any further questions.

However, he had forgotten about Thomas.            

“Tell me,” Thoman began, his tone like poisoned syrup, “is the reason why you suddenly want to serve by any chance connected to the new guy coming in at quarter to ten each morning?”

Mats’ attention was suddenly and completely re-engaged. “New guy? What new guy”

“Never mind.” Marco replied, huffing. He turned to Thomas and stared daggers at him. “Don’t you have tables to wipe down or something?”

\---

On the fifth day, Mario ordered a cappuccino. He also decided that he wanted something to eat, and Marco learned that he had as much trouble selecting his food as he did his drinks. Mario changed his mind three times, and chewed so furiously on his lip throughout the process that it was a wonder it didn’t bleed.

Mario eventually settled on a cupcake, which had been his initial selection. Any other customer, and Marco would have flared. On Mario, the action somehow became endearing. He suspected that Mario could have ordered an iced half-caff ristretto venti four-pump sugar-free cinnamon dolce soy skinny latte, and he would have made it gladly and with stars in his eyes.

They made casual conversation about the holiday season, and Mario talked to him about dinners with his family and the perils of gift-buying for his cousins. He didn’t filter, at all, talking to Marco like they were old friends. He simply said the first thing that came to his mind, utterly indifferent to the fact that their previous interactions amounted to a grand total of ten minutes, if that. In a line of work that brought Marco in contact with a conveyer belt of customers, Mario’s sincerity was a welcome glitch in the system, a breath of fresh air.

He laughed a lot as well, even at Marco’s feeble attempts at conversation and humour. There were moments when Marco’s small smile would suddenly beam, and in those moments, Marco would feel like he’d been punched in the stomach. He was glad that he was leaning against the counter. He didn’t trust his knees.

Marco made the cappuccino a little more slowly than usual, and when he handed it over, their hands accidentally brushed. Warmth flamed from the back of his palm to his chest, and flowered out to the rest of his body. He caught Mario’s eyes but couldn’t read his expression. Their goodbyes were as casual as any other morning.

“Well, well, _well_ ,” exclaimed a voice from behind him.

Marco almost jumped out of his skin. He thought that he had been alone. Mats suddenly emerged from the back, and sauntered over to Marco wearing the smuggest expression that Marco had ever seen on his features. This was no small feat, given that it was Mats.

Marco sighed in resignation, preparing for the onslaught of mockery at his expense.

“Mats, don’t.” He said, in a feeble attempt to nip the conversation in the bud.

“So, _he’s_ the reason for your newfound interest in service?” Mats asked, nodding towards the door.

Marco raised a hand to stop him, colour creeping into his neck. “Mats, I swear to god. _Don’t start_.”

“And here I was, thinking that you were covering for me out of the goodness and generosity of your own heart. But hey, never mind. He’s cute.”

“If you say so.” Marco replied curtly, busying himself. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

“How long has this been going on?” 

“Absolutely nothing’s going on.”

_But thanks for the reminder._

“You greeted him by his _name_. You’ve worked here for two years and you’ve never once learned a customer’s name. It took you two months to remember mine, for god’s sake _.”_

Marco rolled his eyes. “You are so full of shit. And I don’t have to answer any of your questions. I’ve been covering your ass for a week. Philipp still doesn’t know anything about your oddly regular disappearances in the morning. _You_ owe _me_.”

“If he asks, tell him I’ve taken up smoking.”

“Or – I could tell him that Benni’s morning breaks at the bakery have been rescheduled for 9.45. One word from me, and you’re dead. Your balls are in my hands.”

“You’ve been covering my ass the whole time, so you’re an accessory. Your balls are equally in mine.” Mats pointed, utterly indifferent. “Now, are you going to tell me who this guy is or am I going to have to tell Philipp that you’re hitting on the customers?”

\---

On the sixth day, following the weekend, Mario ordered a caffe misto. He sat at one of the couches with his drink, and pulled a book of university readings from his satchel. He took one sip from his drink and grimaced, before returning to the counter and sheepishly asking Marco if he could have a shot of sweet syrup. When Marco wouldn’t let him pay for it, Mario turned ten shades of red with shy gratitude.

Marco felt rather pleased with himself.

Mats took a little longer to return that day. He re-emerged behind the counter at half past ten, his hair so dishevelled that Marco suspected forces other than the wind had been at play. He opened his mouth to make a dry comment, but Mats spoke first and deflected the conversation.

“So. Did your boyfriend come in for coffee today?”

Marco took the rubber band holding together the fresh loyalty cards in his hands, and he flicked it in Mats’ direction. It snapped against the base of his neck and Mats let out a pained exclamation.

“Keep calling him my boyfriend,” Marco threatened calmly, “and see what happens to you next. His name is Mario.”

“Does this Mario even like coffee? Has he found a coffee that he likes?”

“Not yet.”

“How long has he been coming in now?”

“Six consecutive weekdays.”

“How very interesting.”

“It’s completely unremarkable.”

“No, it isn’t. You’re the best barista within a a fifty kilometre radius. If he doesn’t like your coffee, then he probably doesn’t like coffee, period.” Mats paused, waiting for his words to take effect. When Marco didn’t react, he continued. “So maybe he’s not coming in for the coffee anymore, if you know what I’m saying.”

“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“First, I’m saying that you’re an idiot. Second, I’m saying that you might as well ask the guy out and spare him his $7.50 each morning.”

“Are you suggesting that the pleasure of my company isn’t worth $7.50?”

“Marco, even the pleasure of _my_ company isn’t worth $7.50. ”

Their conversation was interrupted by a group of a dozen friends walking into the store. They were soon so busy that Philipp had to come out from the back to help them serve and prepare drinks. The mid-morning rush bled into the lunchtime rush, and they didn’t grab a moment’s rest until two in the afternoon. As the door closed behind the last customer of the mid-afternoon, Marco turned to Mats.

“Look, don’t read anything into this,” he began tentatively, “but I wouldn’t even know how to ask him out, anyway.”

Mats ran a tired hand through his hair. He shrugged, and looked to Marco earnestly. “There’s no science to it. All you have to do is ask.”

“You say that like it's just any other question.”

“It _is_ any other question. I don’t understand why people struggle with this concept so much.” Mats exclaimed. “Just ask. You never know. You might be very pleased with the results.”

“We don’t all have faces carved by Bernini, Mats.”

Mats waved a hand dismissively. He had never been particularly good at acknowledging his face, its ridiculous symmetry or proportions, or the effect that it had on most people.

“Just ask.” He repeated.

“On what pretext?”

“I don’t know. ‘ _You’re cute. I’m cute. Let’s be cute together_ ’. Think of something. You two have a nice little routine going. At least he’s talking to you. Work it in through that.”

Marco contemplated the option for a few moments before dismissing it as being precisely what he did not want to do.

The routine kept Mario coming back without risking anything. The routine made it easy for him to nurture a suspicion that maybe, just maybe, against all likelihoods, Mario kind of sort of maybe liked him too. To actually ask would be to risk finding out otherwise. And if he asked, and if Mario said no – then what? Mario might come in, and it would be awkward, and quarter to ten would go from being Marco’s favourite time of the day to his worst.

Or, god forbid, Mario might not even come in any more. Marco wasn’t sure which possibility was worse.

And besides - Marco _liked_ the routine. He looked forward to it. It gave him a reason to smile to himself in the chasms of the early morning rush.

“Maybe I won’t ask just yet.”

\---

On the seventh day, Mario uncapped his white chocolate mocha and took a sip as soon as Marco handed him his drink. He wrinkled his nose as though the taste was unpleasant, but he hadn’t shuddered like he had on the first day for a while. He was either closer to finding a drink that he liked, or he was growing used to the taste of coffee.

Marco decided to give in to his curiosity. “Hey - can I ask you something?”

The question caught Mario briefly off-guard, but the megawatt smile resumed almost immediately.  “Go ahead.”

“And don’t take this the wrong way.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do you actually like coffee?”

Mario smiled guiltily. “Uh, no. That obvious, is it?”

“I had a hunch.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really been a coffee-drinker. I figured I might as well try and see how I like it. I mean, there’s bound to be one I like, right?.”

“Are you going to go through the whole menu?”

“I guess I might.” And then he flushed, and looked to Marco shyly. “Not a lot of people do that, do they? I’m sorry.”

“There is absolutely no need to apologize.”

And Marco meant it, too, because the menu was long. There were enough drinks on it to keep Mario coming in for a fair while longer.

\---                      

By the eighth day, word of Marco’s crush had spread around the staff. There was even a pool going on how long it would take him to ask Mario out.

The rest of the staff didn’t even have the decency to hide it from him. Thomas typed out a list of all the bets that had been placed and pinned it to the staff notice board inside the common room. Marco was mortified by some of the wages.

(‘ _Six months_?!” He had confronted Basti.)

(Basti was entirely unrepentant.)

\---

On the ninth day, the morning rush was particularly bad, with more customers bearing more finnicky orders than usual. It tested even Mats’ patience, and he had reverted to cool politeness rather than his normal, pleasant manner. When the shop emptied just before half past nine, Marco slunk down onto the floor behind the counter and leaned back against it. His hands hurt and his head hurt and he found himself looking to the clock a little more regularly than usual.

Outside, the weather howled with particular ferocity, but Mario came in on time despite the elements. His face was swallowed by a snood, and he looked warm and cosy, like a fireside. He ordered a salted caramel hot chocolate and a devil’s food doughnut.

He scrunched his face, deep in thought, as he deliberated over the flavour. He chewed absent-mindedly on his bottom lip, and _christ_ , Marco thought to himself, _his lips don't need to get any redder._

“Chocolate.” Mario decided, although his tone indicated that he was short of certainty, as ever. He smiled apologetically at Marco. “I always plan to be more adventurous and then I just – I always go back to the chocolate, y’know?”

Marco nodded, and slipped the cookie into a paper sleeve.

“Can you – could I get you to warm it in the microwave for twenty seconds?” Mario asked sheepishly.

Marco would have baked a fresh batch if Mario asked him to.

\---

On the afternoon of the ninth day, Marco came down with a lightning fast case of the sniffles. He wasn’t exactly sick, but he went through enough tissues in the space of an hour for Philipp to deem him a health and safety hazard. Philipp sent him home with instructions that he was to take the following day off.

So on the tenth day, Marco woke up early despite the fact that he wouldn’t be going in to work. His body had jolted awake at 5.30 am, wired as it now was for early mornings. But he couldn’t get back to sleep either, so he lay in bed and tried not to think about dark-haired boys with easy smiles.

He felt ridiculous. Two weeks of brief little meetings should not have affected a reasonable adult in this way – in _any_ way – and yet here he was, daydreaming in bed. He knew nothing about Mario, and therein lay the problem. What he didn't know, which consisted of most things, was filled in for him by the long, empty hours at work and his overactive imagination.

Shortly after quarter to ten, his reverie was disrupted by the high chime of his cell phone.

“Mats?”

“Your loverboy just came in.”

“I’m sick. You know I’m sick. Why are you taunting me with this fact?”

“Because no one has ever been more disappointed to see me in my life.”

“Welcome to the world that most of us inhabit.” Marco responded, but he smiled despite himself into his pillow. It was a mercy that smiles couldn’t be heard over the phone.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it.”

“You needed it. You’re insufferable.”

“He even looked behind the counter to see if you would appear. I told him you were sick. He seemed crestfallen.”

“He didn’t.” Marco protested. “Did he? Mats, if you’re lying, I’m going to break every bone in your body. Twice.”

“I said that you told me to tell him that you’d be back tomorrow.”

Marco froze between his sheets, mortified.

“You did _what_?”

“You heard me.”

“Why the _fuck_ would you tell him something like that?”

“Because I have fifty dollars hinging on you asking that boy out before the end of the week, that’s why.”

\---

On the eleventh day, after a weekend that seemed to drag on for a week, Marco returned to work and kept his eye on the clock. At quarter to ten, a man walked in and ordered a pumpkin spice latte with a heart on the foam. A few moments later, like clockwork, Mario walked in and smiled like a sunrise when he saw Marco back behind the counter. Marco’s heart drummed a tattoo against his chest, and he knew he was smiling back like an idiot as well.

Mats, who had refrained from seeing Benni that day, stood next to Marco at the counter. He gave Marco an unsubtle kick to the foot. Marco ignored him.

Mats took Mario’s order – a pumpkin spice latte, which he decided on without consulting the menu – and Marco went to prepare the drinks at the same time. He made a foam heart on one of them, capped both, and gave one each to Mario and the other customer. The latter ran out of the store in a hurry.

Mario stopped briefly enough to tell Marco that he had heard he was sick, and that he was glad he was okay.

He made his way to the door, uncapping his drink on the way - and then he stopped in the middle of the floor. He stared down at his drink. He paused, but he didn’t drink from it.

Mario turned around, and caught Marco looking at him. Mario’s expression was peculiar – one that he hadn’t seen before, and couldn’t decipher.

“Is – everything okay with your drink?” Marco asked, mystified.

“Yeah. It’s – fine.”

Mario seemed to change his mind about leaving, and he went and sat down on one of the couches facing the counter. He picked up a thick magazine and pretended to read it, all the while taking tiny sips of his coffee. Marco knew he was pretending to read because Mario flicked through the pages far too quickly to make any sense of the articles. He also knew that Mario was pretending because whenever he glanced at him, Mario seemed to be glancing back, and each would immediately avert his gaze.

Marco messed up each of the next three orders that Mats gave him.

Finally, Mario left. He gave Marco a shy wave, as usual, but the peculiar expression hadn’t left his face.

A few moments after he left, the other customer from earlier walked back in with a harassed expression on his face, and the takeaway cup of pumpkin spice latte in his hands. He approached Mats and Marco at the counter with an apologetic demeanour.

“Hey. Listen – I’m sorry to come back and I don’t mean to be an ass – but there was no heart on the pumpkin spice latte.”

“Are you sure?”

The man uncapped his drink and put it on the counter for Mats and Marco to see. The foam was, as he alleged, entirely unremarkable. Nary a heart in sight.

Marco frowned. “But I did it. I made the heart. I physically remember making –“

And then, like a line of dominoes, everything fell into place.

The heart was on the other drink.

Marco took a moment to collect himself before apologizing and making a replacement coffee, on the house. After the customer left, he sunk his elbows onto the counter and buried his face in his hands. Mats placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Marco? What’s the matter?”

“I fucked up. Oh my god, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

The hand at his shoulder squeezed gently but reassuringly. “You forgot one heart on one coffee in two years of otherwise exemplary service. You’re going to be fine.”

“The heart was on Mario’s coffee.”

“What?”

“I must have mixed up the drinks when I gave them out. Mario got a heart in his coffee.”

“He probably didn’t even notice.”

“He always uncaps his drink.” Marco replied flatly. “He stopped. He looked up at me. I’m pretty sure he noticed.”

Marco wondered whether Mario would come back again.

\---

On the twelfth day, he did.

He walked in with only a shadow of his usual smile, and with a strangely determined look on his face. He went up to the counter and met Marco’s eyes, and if Marco harboured any lingering doubts about whether Mario had seen the heart, they vanished. He had most definitely seen it.

“Morning.” Marco said, because it was easier than the quiet.

“Hey.”

And then there was a pause. A very long pause.

Marco cleared his throat. “Um, what can I get you?”

He could have sworn that Mario took a discreet deep breath.

“Uh, well, your phone number would be a good place to start.” Mario blurted.

Marco’s breath hitched in his chest, and he stared at Mario in stunned silence. He had seen Mario blush before, but not like this. His face looked as red as Marco’s felt.

“Sorry, what?”

“Your – phone number.” Mario answered, running a nervous hand through his hair and smiling shyly. “I’m so sorry. That sounded so much smoother in my head.”

Marco felt light-headed. This boy – this soft-cheeked boy, with his perfect hair and the laughter in his eyes and his endless scarves and cardigans – wanted his number, and by extension, wanted him. Mario could have asked him out through the medium of interpretive dance, and Marco would have probably agreed.

“Do you – do you want a drink to go with that?” Marco replied, giving in to the beginnings of an irrepressible grin.

Mario laughed aloud. “No. I’ve given up. I don’t like coffee. I’m never going to like it.”

“Glad you figured it out, in the end.”

“I figured it out a week ago. For the last week, I’ve been coming in for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, feedback, concrit or cookies are all appreciated ^_^


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